Treasures Box Set

Summary

This Box Set includes:Captain Stevenson's Secret; In this first book of the series; A Diary of Treasures, a desperate sailor withstands the hardships of starvation and injury. Alone and stranded in the Pacific, he is unaware that the island was once famous for a pirate's treasure and a cabin boy. Discovering the remains of a man's tortured body complicates his hope of rescue as he learns that greater danger lay ahead.Return To Stevenson's Isle; The foursome from Captain Stevenson's Secret return to search for treasure on Stevenson's Isle. What could possibly go wrong this time? The crew of the Sylvester find new challenges and a mystery as they make their way to the island in this second book of the series; A Diary of Treasures.Stevenson's Reward; The noble foursome from Return To Stevenson's Isle become a crew of five as they search for another treasure in the south Pacific islands in this final book of the series; A Diary of Treasures.

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Treasures Box Set - Noel Bodenmiller

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CAPTAIN STEVENSON'S SECRET

Noel Raymond Bodenmiller

For Mother, Catherine Gravier Bodenmiller

Granddaughter, Violet Miriam Maslowe

Copyright (c) 2009 Noel R. Bodenmiller

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I was in rough shape, the pain enormous, and it took some time, actually days, to sum up all the parts that hurt and to ascertain the gravity of all my illnesses. Hard grounding or not, I didn't know what happened to the boat. I had lost all ability to steer when the entire rudder assembly separated and disappeared under the stern. This was followed by almost twenty-four hours of constant bailing before I suffered the bump on my head, while trying once again to plug the hole left behind by the absent steering shaft. I can only guess that the MisInformed is making her way slowly, even now, toward the great trash haven in the ocean to join with the other floating debris. That is, if she's not already lying at the bottom, to sail no more.

When I first arrived on the island I had no idea of its rich history, and having washed up abruptly onto its shore after a terrific and terrifying storm, I did not care about its past. I was just happy to find myself alive.

Lying on my back I could barely lift my head away from the thick heavy wet sand that had sucked it down into the upward position that had proved to preserve my life. Groaning with agonizing pain, my first attempt to roll to my side failed and I had to rest up a bit before the second attempt also failed. The horizon was beginning to lighten and I was strengthened by the idea that a warming sun might help me out of my situation. I remember there was a passing thought that perhaps someone would wander by and help me to my feet. But that did not happen. Well, I quickly had to ask myself, why should this day be different from any other? I waited for the warmth and if I didn't move things I hurt a little less. I tried bending my knee but I passed out from the pain. In a way this was helpful because I didn't awake again until the sun was well up and warming my tired old bones.

Due to my strict upbringing in the upper social class of America, reading juvenile literature was greatly frowned upon. Instead Plato's Republic, Voltaire's Socrates and Herodotus' Histories were to be studied and discussed at great length. Works such as Huckleberry Finn, Treasure Island and The Boy Scout Manual were considered pedestrian and counterproductive. A real shame for me as it turned out, because without the prior knowledge imparted in such books, I was literally cast upon the island with little hope of surviving.

Grounding, we've all heard of the term before, and in its simplest form we sailors know that if weather conditions are not too bad and only a sandbar is involved, it's just a temporary setback until the tide rises or the wind picks up or the captain pulls a tricky maneuver to release the boat from the grasp of earth.

To get to such a far away place is easy if one has only a modicum of financial assets. Keeping a close eye to the weather is of extreme importance and something which I should have done a little better.

Spending money was always easy for me. Any new invention that came along to help with navigation was easy prey for my wallet and although times could be tough for the general population I could usually find a way to purchase what I most wanted in life. There were sacrifices along the way, as in most lives, but there is no reason to detail those here, now or later. That I was now lost, became the greatest matter of importance.

On or about my sixtieth birthday I came to a number of conclusions about life. One was that my accomplishments had seemed few. He was born and then he died was more work from a stone carver than I deserved. Some tombstones at least say father or mother which, although brief, are better epithets than I had earned. Another conclusion: I was most probably going to traverse the rest of time alone. This had been a hard pill to swallow. It seemed akin to giving up. I had considered the idea earlier in life...perhaps as many as twenty years earlier...but I had struggled on, rarely looking in the mirror and facing the reality of getting old. As long as I didn't really look at the reflection very hard (and I didn't) I could continue to see more possibilities than really existed. Poor fool... And guaranteed to fail to boot. Surely I had missed the boat, looking to port when I should have looked to starboard (and I'm not referring to this more recent incident). Well, it's been a rough time, and as much as I wish that this aspect of life would somehow disappear, I'm afraid the Almighty has seen to it, that so far, hope still springs eternal and frustration abides. Was there someone around that next corner? But then, I have digressed haven't I?

Desperate, better than hopeless, described my awareness as I awakened again to my surroundings and my wretched physical condition. I remember wondering at this moment whether my usual poor performance had finally taken me to my end.

I knew not to try rolling the same way again and I certainly wasn't going to bend that knee again. I resolved that I must at the least get away from a semi-floating position. I ever so gently tested the other leg by slowly dragging my foot up underneath to about knee level and then pushed away slowly against the wet water and sand mixture that wanted so much to keep me right where I was.

It wasn't much, but there was some movement, and after several hours I was looking back at a lovely beach that revealed the struggles of an out of season, out of place, injured pseudo snow angel.

I was exhausted and only in a slightly better position than before. Shade would come with the movement of the sun, but I was extremely thirsty and I had no idea about where I was or how cold it might get after sunset.

What if I could dig a small hole with my good arm, I'm on the beach, water would be there and I would use part of my shirt's tail to absorb water? Salty to be sure, but at that point any moisture was helpful and was welcomed.

I'm not sure now, when the first thought was given to food. There was so much to do before such a luxury could be gotten, but I do remember that the moisture of the shirt felt so good on my lips.

What a predicament! If I dragged myself further up the slope of the beach I would have to dig even deeper to wet my shirt again. I had no idea how much farther I needed to push to be safe from any tide during the coming night.

With any sudden movement the pain would come back to remind me that I really needed to do a little more self-examination to establish whether any splints were needed. A quick survey of the beach for any available driftwood was made within my limited view. I closed one eye and was able to see a few usable pieces, and not at a great distance. My head still hurt and I could feel some dried blood in my hair and along one side of my face. There was really little sense to waste the moisture I gathered in my shirt to either clean up the mess or to dirty my shirt in such an effort. If I somehow survived the next few days I would give consideration to this small discomfort at some later date.

Well, what to do? I looked again at the few pieces of driftwood and saw that one of the larger pieces could be used as a tool to dig, certainly with more efficiency than my one good hand. And it could dig deeper, just what I would need at a higher position on the beach. After a short rest and another dampening of my shirt, I mistakenly wiped my entire face and reddened my shirt with some of the re-moistened blood. I cursed myself for my short memory and stupidity and re-rinsed my shirt so as not to pollute my next water port. I squeezed out the waste as well as I could with the use of only one hand. I proceeded diagonally upwards toward the driftwood forsaking my first water hole, now colored with my blood.

I can't emphasize enough the amount of pain involved to reach that small pile of otherwise useless wood. I created one-legged crippled sand-angels on the surface of the beach until I reached the shade of protective trees. I had dragged my driftwood tied together with my belt, securely latched through two belt loops of my pants.

Somehow my spirits had remained high to this point even though the situation would have appeared quite hopeless to an observer. Perhaps the challenge of survival had affected my outlook, perhaps that age-old desire to see who or what might be around the next corner drove me forward once more.

Now that I was out of the direct sunlight I figured I could do without the sleeves on my shirt, though they protected me from the sun during the long days of sailing. I prepared to make use of them to make fast the splints on either a leg or an arm as soon as I determined what was the condition of both.

I eased off the shirt and placed the shoulder portion of the shirt into my mouth and began to pull with my good hand and arm until I successfully began to get separation by ripping the material.

It was far easier to investigate the arm than the leg so that's where I started. Feeling first along the humerus and then slowly along the radius and ulna, I could determine no clear separation or sharp edges through the skin. At the elbow I could feel a small chip of bone floating just below the skin, which probably accounted for some of the pain I endured when previously trying to roll on my side.

Well I could live with that and was further relieved to find that I had only sprained the wrist, something else that would simply get better over time.

Now at least I could begin to use both arms with pain but with less worry. Next was the leg, and it wasn't good. I was going to have to find a tight fit among large boulders, if there were any close by, or some other arrangement that would allow a good tug on the leg so I could set it. There was no doubt about the break at mid fibula and it needed alignment. This would have to happen soon and I considered whether too much time might have already passed for a good result. I had no idea how much time had passed between shipwreck and my awakening until I passed my hand over my wet pants and felt for my pocket watch. I pulled it carefully from my pocket with my sore arm and to my amazement it still worked. Date and time keeping were intact... I opened the rear access to shake out the remaining water and set it carefully on the sand to allow the sunlight to dry the interior workings. I would have to repeat the dunking and drying process as soon as I could find fresh water to combat the corrosion that the salt may have already effected. Whether the watch was to be ruined or not at least I knew it wasn't too late to set my leg. But then the task lay at hand and had to be attempted. I looked around for help. Still no one, and then it suddenly came to me, maybe there was no one?

I searched around again now that my position had turned into one that was more upright and a little further up the beach. I would have to pull myself a little closer to the tree line where the thin grass began to group into a bed that gained a green color the further one looked. My eyesight was beginning to return so that my focus was better than it had been earlier. With more detail I could begin to hunt for the twin tree trunks that I needed so desperately, but there was not a pair in sight.

A number of scenarios came to mind about how one might come to pulling a leg straight with sufficient force to pull the bones apart enough so that ends of the break could be lined up properly for a good heal. But everything that came to mind needed non-existing resources, excepting one daring plan that could cause my demise.

I pictured the solution in my mind and dismissed it a number of times as too dangerous and very possibly fatal. The natives would have a good laugh discovering the man who had committed suicide by hanging from his foot tied to the crotch of a tree. Rather strange way to do it they would remark, shaking their heads. And if there were natives, perhaps I should wait a little longer and they would discover me and save my leg and me with an all-knowing doctor and the beautiful assistant who would care for my every need.

I waited a while longer and considered the probabilities and gathered my small resources nearer to me as I drew closer to the tree that looked to have the needed height and strength to accomplish the task.

Surely I would pass out from the initial pain that I was to sustain after dropping from the branch, with my belt attached to both my ankle and the branch. There was little doubt that the branch was stout and stiff enough, but the buckle was of such light grade that it caused me uncertainty. To add a sprained ankle to the broken leg was also an option, as was a broken neck. If I were lucky to be relieved of all the aforementioned, I would still have to be strong enough to set the leg by tying my shirtsleeves around the driftwood splints and then disembark from the tree itself, from an upside-down position without further injury. The day was getting shorter with all the deliberations and some things could just not wait for the morrow.

Once again I gathered my resources and with every bit of strength and determination I climbed the tree and connected the belt to tree and ankle. I stood upright and closed my eyes and leaned forward. My stomach suddenly churned with fear and I fainted with the effect. My weakened grip on the tree's trunk gave way.

My concerns were for naught. Luckily for me the tree branch broke and the force of my fall and the sudden jerk on my leg were more than enough to put things back as they should be. After re-awakening from my unconsciousness I had enough presence of mind to carry on the plan and apply the splint. With the exception of stiffness in the neck, I seemed to have suffered no further injuries from my latest adventure. I rested a while before digging a deeper hole to retrieve a bit of moisture to my lips and face, the water seemingly less salty the further away I was from the shore.

Skipping about painfully on one leg, I set out to find a suitable crutch, (the broken tree limb was too long and nearby driftwood too short). And it was time to make plans to survive the coming night. I considered making a fire and then I thought about the warmth of the sand and the dampness that lay beneath the surface. At first I thought about digging into the sand and covering myself with it, but I dismissed the idea, perhaps too quickly.

I had never built a fire before without the aid of matches or at least a hot ember stolen from a diminishing fire. I took a quick inventory of my belongings: one sleeveless shirt, one pair of pants, a belt, one pair of shoes, wet socks, a pocket watch and one bimini frame end fitting with a small stainless steel bolt and locknut. I quickly wound the watch in an effort to prevent the instrument from coming to a stop in its corrosive